


Fight or Flight (Or Something Better)

by neierathima



Category: Supernatural, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:59:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neierathima/pseuds/neierathima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a different world Clint Barton became a Hunter after a bad mission. He's still saving the world, because that's just what he's destined to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight or Flight (Or Something Better)

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Discussion of suicidal thoughts/comments (Clint is not in a good place).

**Part 1:**

Clint didn't mean to become a hunter. He liked being in the military. He was good at. Aside from the circus, it was the only thing he was ever good at. But one bad week and he's being let out with an honorable discharge, a handful of medals, and more dead comrades than he likes to remember. "Thanks for your time, now get lost and don't talk." Do they expect him to pretend it never happened? Clint isn't that kind of man. 

So now he kills things he can barely understand (and occasionally things he understands all too well, when the government has a job they don't want too many ties too, and he hates it, but it keeps him funded) and spends the rest of the time driving away from his mistakes on an endless web of American highways and drinking it away in shit hole bars that never ask if he can't get out all the stains. 

He's never been ashamed of the fact that he likes sex. When it's good, it's great, and even when it's only ok, it's still pretty good. He's good looking enough and charming enough that he's never had trouble finding partners, and if he's a one-night-only kind of guy, he's not the only one in the world. 

Except he never planned on being a one-night-only kind of guy, it just sort of happened that way. First the circus, and when he was still figuring himself out, it didn't seem right to make mistakes inside the family. Then in the army, and now this. He's lived most of his life on the move. He can't imagine slowing down and he tries not to let himself imagine someone who could keep up. 

Clint would have been dead a dozen times over if he couldn't tell when someone was following him. This guy has been at the last three bars, two hotels, six diners, and at least a few libraries. What Clint can't figure out is how he's been following him, and what he wants. Clint would say there's something not normal about him, except he's so normal that even in his just-doing-my-job-ma'am suit he disappears into the crowd at this dive. 

He's let it slide for weeks, but today, Clint is nursing a wrenched knee courtesy of a ghost with a bad attitude and a split lip courtesy of an asshole who didn't like being asked how his girlfriend died. The feeling of being watched, observed, that he actually hasn't been minding is suddenly getting on his nerves. He waits awhile longer and then catches the guy's eye and jerks his head towards the exit at the back of the bar. He thinks maybe the guy is just a little surprised to be found out, not that you can tell by his face. It doesn't matter if the guy is ready, tonight Clint is going to get some answers. 

When he steps outside, cool fall air hitting him hard against the breath of the too-hot crowd behind him, he wants to run. He feels like something big is closing in around him, pushing at him and his hand itches where it's stuffed in his pocket. He doesn't run. 

Clint waits, and by the time the other man steps out into the alley his blood is boiling. His fists are clenched in his pockets now, every breath measured for an arrow that isn't knocked waiting in a hotel down the street. He feels like fighting or fucking or both or neither or something else he hasn't even discovered yet. 

"Mr. Barton. I've been looking for you." 

He doesn't know why but the words are just too much and he turns around swinging. He's just as good as he ever is but this guy is better and Clint finds himself face first in the wall, one arm holding his shoulders and head down the other twisting both arms together. He struggles because that's what he does even though he knows it's not going to work. He's well and truly trapped. He stops fighting, lets his body go limp but the man doesn't even stumble under the dead weight. 

He should want to run, but he doesn't. He should fight, but he can't. If he were even half as smart as he should be he'd let it go, find out what's going on, and regroup to start again the next round. He's not. 

Clint repositions his weight on the balls of his feet, slides his head back into the hand holding it, exposing his neck, and shoves his hips into the stranger behind him. He's rewarded with the barest uneven breath from the other man. 

He doesn't get a second thrust before he's being spun and pushed back against the wall, still aching shoulders hitting hard. He's grinning and he knows it's bordering on manic but he can't help himself. Someone is noticing him, someone is giving him a reaction. 

The man is even more normal up close. He looks just like any of a dozen government types Clint's worked with throughout the years. There's no edge of the supernatural, no ugly history hiding behind the eyes. He's calm, competent, and unimpressed with Clint's tricks. 

The man smiles, professionally bland. 

"Mr. Barton, this isn't a good idea." 

Clint smiles and then just can't seem to stop. He starts laughing, deep belly laughs welling up, breaking the tension. The guy steps back, frowning, and Clint nearly doubles over at the sight. The guy sighs and moves to take another step back but Clint puts out a hand, grabs the suit and doesn't let him go. He still needs answers but suddenly he's not afraid. 

He's not afraid. 

Clint looks at the stranger, really looks at him for the first time. There's that competency, and the calm, the kind that knows how to wait. The kind that Clint had to learn the hard way and then keep learning. 

He stares at too-normal-to-be-normal eyes and he's not afraid and he doesn't know why. 

"Mr. Barton, I need to speak with you." 

He shakes his head. He doesn't want this. He signed on to get the thing that killed his buddies and a better offer hasn't come along yet. Not whatever this is. He's too close to burnout as it is. 

The stranger's face is still calm. Implacable. Clint can't handle that look right now. 

He slides his hand up, curls it around the man's neck, thumb in the pulse point, pulls him close. Clint kisses him, too hard, closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look and doesn't let go. 

This kiss breaks and Clint's expecting him to pull away but he doesn't. He stays close, their noses still touching so Clint can feel when the other man nods.

"If this is necessary." 

Then he's being kissed again, properly. It's the best kind of kiss, as far as Clint is concerned, sloppy and deep and he's not in control at all. The hair under his fingers isn't long enough to get a grip but he digs his fingers into the skin and focuses on the beat beneath his thumb, just out of time with his own heavy pulse. 

He's trying to let everything else go but this guy is having none of it. He pulls away, kisses his way across Clint's face to his neck and Clint lets his head fall back onto the wall. In between kisses and soft bites the man is talking. 

"This is happening." "You are needed." "You have seen the signs." "You have a purpose." "You are not alone." 

"This" :bite: "Is" :kiss: "Real" 

It's everything he's ever wanted to hear save the most important thing. He stares at the sky and let's his hips thrust into the warmth of a stranger and breathes. 

Doesn't ask to hear what isn't being offered. 

_You are wanted._

 

**Part 2:**

Clint wakes up face down on the bed in the same crappy motel room he pulled into yesterday. He's shirtless and shoeless but still wearing yesterday's jeans. The comforter is kicked to the floor but the sheet is still tucked around his waist. 

He closes his eyes and pretends for a moment that yesterday night didn't happen. He got drunk, stumbled to the motel, went to bed. The usual. 

"I know you're awake Mr. Barton. It's time we spoke." 

He sits up, stretching and scratching at the back of his head. The guy - who he should probably get a name off of, considering - is sitting at the table, eating pancakes out of a take out container with plastic utensils. There's another container, still closed, in front of the other chair. 

Clint blinks at him for a moment, still groggy, before stumbling over to the table. Food is food. 

There's no pancakes in his, just heaps of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes, along with way more bacon than could have come from a single serving. He dumps tabasco sauce over the whole thing and digs in. 

"So, do you have a name? Because "that guy" is starting to get weird." 

The guy finishes chewing before he talks, which Clint didn't. 

"My name is Phil Coulson. I'm an angel." 

Several thoughts start clamoring for attention all at once. The obvious ones about impossibility and danger. Except he's been hearing rumors out of South Dakota, and he's been stupid about danger for so long he's not sure he's a fair judge. He decides to go with the most obvious. 

"Phil? Kind of a weird name for an angel." 

Clint still can't get a read on what the guy - angel - Phil - is thinking. Whatever it is, it's marked by him looking briefly but inoffensively thoughtful before responding. 

"My proper title is difficult for humans to hear. I chose an appropriate name for my identity on earth." 

Phil doesn't look upset. He looks so not upset that it makes Clint suspicious. 

"No, it's a great name. Very ordinary. You look like every other acronym soup guy I've ever met." 

He doesn't actually look pleased, but Clint is going to interpret Phil's expression as quietly-charmed. Clint is very charming. They eat in silence for awhile, until Phil is finished and Clint mostly is. He sticks the last piece of bacon into his mouth and then leans his chair onto the back two legs. Phil twitches, and Clint's betting he wants to tell him to sit down properly. 

"So. Assuming you aren't crazy or evil or both, what does God want with me?" 

Phil's Serious Authority Figure face is far more convincing than anybody else's Clint's seen. He grits his teeth to resist the urge to snap to attention. 

"God is not the issue in this situation. There is a creature which is attempting to bring out the apocalypse and end all human life on earth. Your involvement is required." 

Clint's met some pretty deadpan guys, but he's never met anyone before who could deliver a speech like that and make it sound like a standard briefing. There's no dramatics, no trying-too-hard monotone, just the even delivery of someone who's said it so many times it's not the end of the world, it's just Tuesday. 

He thinks about it for a while. He could do the run around of "why me" but he doesn't think he's going to get an answer any time before Phil's ready to give it. He could say no, and run for as long as Phil lets him, but he can feel the power crackling around the angel and even if Clint's got a death wish he'd like it to be fast and painless. He could say yes and make it not worth their time to put up with him, but if there really is something out there trying to hurt people, Clint knows he won't be able to ignore it. 

He runs through every way this could play out and everything eventually leads back to him working for Phil or needing to get close enough to Phil to stop him. Either way, there's no point in making it harder than it has to be. 

"Save the world? It's a little bit above my pay grade, but if it has to be me, I'll do it." 

Phil nods as if this was inevitable but he understands some people take longer to see that. Clint's not sure if he wants to hit him or share the joke. 

"We should leave soon. Can you be ready in an hour?" 

Clint shrugs, wandering over to his bag to dig for clean clothes. 

"Sure, just let me grab a shower. Where are we headed?" 

"North. I'll give you further directions on the way." 

"Not a huge fan of the mystery, Phil." 

When he turns back around, clothes in hand, Phil is gone. 

 

**Part 3:**

Phil the angel shows up about four hours in. Clint took the first highway north and just keep driving. He's still tired, hurting from the last job and mental exhausted from being so on edge. When the angel shows up he wants to freak out a little, but he's too well trained to do so while driving. Phil doesn't say anything so neither does Clint, and they sit in not-quite-companionable silence as they keep on rolling northward. 

Dusk is heading towards them when Clint finally can't stand it anymore. He's hurting back to knees, muscles screaming from sitting for so long. His head is aching and the mystery is starting to stress him out. He pulls over at the next motel he sees. He’s not sure exactly what he’s expecting, but Phil follows him into the lobby. The teenager sitting behind the counter, clearly bored out of her mind, gives them an odd look, probably for the picture they make: Clint in his clean-but-worn work clothes and Phil in his neatly pressed suit. Clint smiles at her and she lets it go. Double beds, cash up front, non-smoking, the whole procedure over in five minutes, Phil standing quietly behind him the whole time. 

Clint drops his duffel onto one bed, toeing off his shoes. The angel stands in front of the closed door until Clint sits at the table, spreading his weapons out in front of him and the angel takes the other chair. He’s halfway through cleaning the first gun when he just can’t stand the silence anymore. 

“Look, do you know how to clean a sidearm?” 

“Yes.” 

Clint hands over the Beretta, watching for a few minutes to make sure Phil knows what he’s doing, but apparently his cover story is very complete because the angel is doing a good job. 

They work in silence some more, and the part of Clint’s brain that gets him into trouble is just about ready to ask what’s going on here when Phil speaks. 

“Lucifer has risen. The archangels wish to start a war with him that will kill billions. A faction of angels seek to prevent this.” 

Clint knows he’s staring like an idiot. Phil stares back, considering. 

“I could reach into your mind and pull information out, but it would be painful and you would notice. Also, it would require physical contact.” 

Clint laughs because sure, why not, angels make out with him and conscript him and then make bad jokes about mind reading. He sees the glint of humor in Phil’s expression, and he thinks he’s starting to get a read on the man. Angel, whatever. 

“So where exactly do I come into this? Pretty sure one sniper isn’t going to save the world.” 

Phil nods, and they both go back to cleaning weapons as they talk. 

“You’re correct. What we need from you is different. Lucifer and Michael are the most powerful of angels. Our weapons will have little affect on them. We’re looking for a different kind of weapon, one which they cannot defend against. We may have found it, but a particular human is needed to summon it.” 

“I guess that’s me. Any chance of you telling me what makes me so special?” 

Clint doesn’t look up from the arrow he’s fletching, so he doesn’t catch the look that crosses Phil’s face. 

“No.” 

“Ok. Question, am I going to still be alive at the end of this ritual? Because I’m willing to take one for the team, but if it’s all the same I’d rather not.” 

He clearly needs more sleep, because he doesn’t notice Phil moving until the angel is kneeling in front of him, taking the arrow out of Clint’s hands and setting it aside. The look on his face is barely contained fury. 

“You will not die.” 

Clint tries to shake off the angel’s grip, but that doesn’t appear to be happening. He tries to backtrack. 

“Hey, it was a joke. If we’re going to be working together you should know I have a shitty sense of humor.” 

Phil doesn’t let go of his wrists, still frowning. 

“You weren’t joking. You will not get yourself killed. If I have to make that an order Barton, I will.” 

Somehow the conversation took a direction he wasn’t prepared for, and Clint can’t handle it. He holds himself still but the urge to run twists inside of him. 

“I’m hungry. You probably are too. I’ll go get some food,” he says, trying to pull away. Phil isn’t letting go and Clint is reminded that Phil isn’t just a guy, he’s something bigger. 

“No. Tell me that you won’t seek your own death.” Phil’s voice still hasn’t risen above that tone of measured professionalism. 

He doesn’t have a death wish, Phil has this wrong, and Clint doesn’t know how to explain, so, 

“Fine. Look, it was just a joke.” 

Phil lets him go and Clint is up, out of the chair, grabbing his wallet and slipping into his shoes. When he looks back from the doorway, Phil is reassembling a gun. It’s like nothing has happened. 

With a door between him and the angel, Clint can’t tell which of them was reading the situation all wrong.


End file.
